


The Gathering

by SadakoTetsuwan



Series: The Deadeye Chronicles [4]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Every day life in Overwatch, Family, Friendship, Gen, It's way more interesting than my life, Right?, Rivalry, Weird, not shipping!, recall
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-11-23
Packaged: 2018-08-17 09:49:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8139635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SadakoTetsuwan/pseuds/SadakoTetsuwan
Summary: McCree was certain he would never receive a recall signal. Not that he ever would have returned to that rotting husk of an organization, but for whatever reason, he continued to listen and carefully maintain his biometric monitor implants. He wasn't sure what he was waiting for--Ana was dead, and he sure as hell wasn't going to answer to anyone else, not after the way he'd left.Then it came.(Sequel to Deadlocked.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I found a natural stopping point for Deadlocked, but I'd already written some short stories and scenes that took place after the recall; so it's a sequel (I guess)!

It had been a while since McCree had been stationed at Gibraltar. The whole place was surprisingly clean—Winston had been doing a lot of housework, it seemed. He started to think for half a second that Tracer might have helped out before he arrived, but he quickly shook that thought off. Lena had never cleaned up anything in her life.

It was nice, seeing how much hadn’t changed since he’d left. Tracer was still almost illegally cheerful, regaling her companions with stories about how she had gotten into car racing since Overwatch’s dissolution; Winston listened politely and laughed at all the right times, though he was distracted and kept climbing up to the upper floor to check the recall status.

But at the same time, so much was different. Reinhardt was more subdued—not that you’d know from talking to him. The way he just sat in wistful silence next to McCree told him they were both feeling the same pain. The recall list was so short…so many friends were missing.

“A transport will be arriving shortly,” Athena announced.

“Who’s on it?” Lena asked, leaning over a broken bit of railing with no apparent concern for the 30 foot drop beneath her.

“Dr. Ziegler. The next nearest recalled agent is Genji Shimada. His flight is due to arrive in approximately two hours.”

“Right then, I'll go get her!” Tracer grinned, blinking down from the railing.

“Whoa there, kiddo,” McCree said, rising from his place atop a wooden crate. “Thinkin’ I ought to bring her in. We’ve got some catching up to do.”

“Oooooh,” Tracer toned, giggling, “Think you two’ll be done ‘catching up’ before anyone else gets here? I’d hate to have to explain your absence.”

“You’ve got a filthy mind, girl,” McCree complained, though the corner of his mouth was upturned as he strode out of the de facto common area, his spurs jangling with each step.

The path to the front of the facility was long and winding and appropriately paranoid, especially after Talon’s attack. Their ease in navigating the Watchpoint and getting around security, however, reminded him of his suspicions back on the hypertrain. Talon had obviously absorbed a significant portion of Blackwatch’s roster. That knowledge only stoked the fire that Ana had lit in his heart so long ago. He had helped Reyes create that monster, and now that it had turned on its owner, somebody had to put it down.

McCree leaned casually against a concrete pylon, adjusting his hat to hide the glare of the late afternoon sun off the ocean. Only Angela was due in on this transport, but there were clearly two figures climbing the narrow path to the landing pad. He frowned and squinted, trying to discern who the other person was—too tall to be Torbjorn, Genji was still hours away, Sombra had defected a little more _permanently_ than he had…

“Jesse!” There was no mistaking that voice.

“Fareeha!” he hollered in response, breaking into a run as the second figure started hurtling toward him. His smile must have been a mile wide as they finally crashed together, his metal arm clanking loudly against Fareeha’s power suit as they swept one another up in a crushing hug. “How’s my baby sister?”

“I’m not a baby,” she laughed, punching him in the shoulder before hugging him tightly again.

“No, ma’am,” he grinned, “Looks like you’re all growed up and doin’ pretty good for yourself,” he remarked, rapping his knuckles against her shoulder. “This standard issue in the Egyptian army these days?”

“I work for private security now,” Fareeha smiled, “It’s our top-of-the-line flight suit. I get to be on all the posters now,” she added, though the realization of what she’d just said slid between her ribs like a cold dagger. McCree caught the sudden pain in her eyes, and understood in a second. Like mother, like daughter. The tension hung awkward and painful for another few moments as McCree cupped her cheek in his cold hand, his thumb swiping past her tattoo as if he expected it to rub off. It hurt, how much she looked like Ana now that she was grown.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” he said softly, his smile falling away as he pulled her in for another hug. Fareeha hugged him back tightly in return, holding herself stiff against her sorrow.

“I was so mad at you at first,” she murmured. “But…after I saw everything that happened, I think I understand why you stayed away. I forgive you, Jesse,” Fareeha said softly giving him a pained smile.

“Thank y’ kindly,” he smiled, though his gaze was downturned. “Figure I had to make it all up to her somehow. Comin’ back and looking out for you seemed the way to do it,” McCree said, mussing her hair up playfully and earning a sharp tug down on the brim of his hat in return.

“We’ll see who looks out for who now,” Fareeha chuckled, striding past the gate. Angela took a tentative step forward, chewing on the inside of her lip.

“McCree,” she said softly.

“Doctor,” he replied, tipping his hat.

“I didn’t think you’d come back. You left so suddenly,” Angela said.

“I could see where things were goin’, and I didn’t like the look of it,” McCree replied. “I did all I could, but I couldn’t stop that train.”

“‘All you could’,” Angela repeated, a bit of a scoff in her voice. “Word still got out. Overwatch still fell.” McCree’s gaze narrowed at her subtle accusation.

“There was things in Blackwatch just for rats and whistleblowers you ain’t got no idea about, Doc—when I say I done all I could, you can know I’m being truthful. Now you might not like what we done, but you know Blackwatch wasn’t sloppy. Reyes _knew_ we had a rat, I done _told_ him we had a rat, and he let it all go down in flames anyway. Soon as I knew he wasn’t gonna do nothin’ to shut down that whistleblower, I knew that I knew too much. If I didn’t disappear myself, Reyes was gonna disappear me and pin the whole damn thing on me. I ain’t no Judas, Angela,” he growled, spitting crudely, “And I ain’t no patsy.”

Uncomfortable silence reigned again, and McCree took a half step back, turning away quietly.

“Sorry, ma’am,” he murmured. “Still just a touch raw about it.”

“…I guess Gabriel betrayed all of us,” Angela murmured, shifting from one foot to the other.

“I hear you there, Doc,” McCree replied, “But now it’s up to us to set things right, ain’t it?”

“Yes…absolutely,” Angela smiled gently. “I’m just glad we’re on the same side, McCree.”

“Come on, Doc, we’ve always been on the same side,” McCree replied. “Just opposite ends.”

* * *

Evening was falling, and the Watchpoint was quickly growing comfortable and domestic. The mess hall was filled with the sounds and smells of various dishes—bangers and mash, falafel, sopapillas, an attempt at a homemade salad dressing—and soon after with the sounds of laughter and repeated toasts around ice cold beers.

“We should’ve got together a long time ago,” Lena sighed, not acting at all out of place drinking between old champs like McCree and Reinhardt, the three setting pace as they dismantled the 12-pack in front of them, all grudgingly accepting the glasses of water Angela would periodically force into their hands as well.

“It was illegal,” Winston replied, only periodically sipping at his bottle and doing his best not to make a face at the taste.

“ _Overwatch activities_ were illegal. This isn’t an Overwatch activity, it’s just having a pint!”

“We’re Overwatch, we’re doing an activity,” McCree replied. “They’d’ve definitely come down on us.”

“Well why ain’t they banging down our door now?” Lena huffed.

“There is strength in numbers,” Genji replied, his beer open but untouched. “Together, we are a force to be reckoned with.”

“‘S true,” McCree replied. “If it was just two of us having a beer, they’d roll up with tanks, jets, the whole nine yards to bring us in before any other old agents turned up and got rowdy. Good idea, in my case,” he smirked.

“Why didn’t they respond earlier, then?” Fareeha asked.

“Recall signal goes out to our biometric monitors,” McCree explained, “If y’ ain’t got one, y’ didn’t hear the signal. They’ll notice our movements pretty soon, but it’s too late now. Their last hope of stopping us was catchin’ me or Genji at the airport.

“There are so few of us. We could still be stopped,” Genji cautioned.

“Even if this is all we have to work with, we will not be stopped,” Reinhardt said, his tone as serious as a heart attack.

“There are still other agents whose monitors may be active,” Athena offered, “Though without maintenance for the past five years, many of them may be damaged or unable to receive or transmit. I cannot confirm the number of potential returnees.”

“Then there’s them that heard, but won’t answer,” McCree added darkly, “Traitors.”

“Intruder detected,” Athena announced, “I have detected biometric monitors, but they are damaged beyond identification.

“Another attack?” Angela asked, standing.

“Twice in one day? Doubtful,” Genji soothed.

“And they’ve got implants—it’s an agent,” Lena smiled.

“Ain’t no guarantee they’re warm and fuzzy,” McCree said, rising from his seat as well. He wasn’t the only suspicious one—Fareeha had also picked up her rocket launcher, her expression firm.

His footfalls were heavy in the empty halls of the Watchpoint, just as hollow as his outlook for the future. Why did he even answer the call? What kind of idiotic masochist would try to revive Overwatch?

As he neared the mess hall, his visor started to pick up several idiotic masochistic signals—most of them were no surprise. A few others, though…

“Long time no see,” he said, his voice gravelly and humorless.

“It can’t be,” Reinhardt gasped, rising from his seat. “Jack?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Didn’t you hear? Jack Morrison is dead.”

“Jack!” Angela said, tears of relief and frustration in her eyes. “We buried you, and that’s how you greet us after all this time?”

“We shouldn’t be greeting each other at all,” Jack growled. “Overwatch is dead. What were you thinking, recalling us?”

“Commander, don’t you see what’s happening out there?” Winston asked, “Talon activity is on the rise, the Omnic attacks in Russia are spreading—the world needs us, sir!”

“The world doesn’t want us, Winston,” Jack replied. “It’s _their_ problem now, and if they don’t want our help, then we should just stay out of their business.”

“If you weren’t hiding behind that cowardly mask, I’d punch you right in your damn mouth,” McCree growled in response, his glare burning beneath the brim of his hat.

“Like you have room to talk,” Jack scoffed, “You tucked tail and ran before you had to go down with the ship.” He reached up and removed his visor, calling McCree’s bluff. His scarred face and harsh glare panned across the room for a moment before quickly resettling on his ‘challenger’. “You deserted Overwatch, McCree. You abandoned us all. You betrayed her.”

His fist lashed out like a snake, catching Morrison’s jaw just as McCree had promised. Reinhardt hauled McCree back by the shoulders easily, the alcohol in his system not doing much to pacify the thrashing, squirming cowboy.

“Been waitin’ twenty years to do that!” McCree snarled, unable to free himself from Reinhardt’s grasp.

“All this time, and you’re still just a punk,” Jack growled, gingerly testing his jaw and lip.

“I might’ve left, but I come back, ain’t I?” McCree spat, “I come back ‘cause it’s what’s right. If’n you don’t _know_ the recall’s right, then what the hell did you come back for?”

“Easy, love, your Texas is showing,” Lena soothed.

“Don’t ask me why I answered,” Jack replied, replacing his mask and turning to Winston. “Ask him why he called.”

“I started to explain earlier,” Winston began, “But we got distracted with each new arrival. It’s like I said, though—international relationships are strained, internal tensions are fueling terrorist activity, human-Omnic relations are at a crisis stage…”

“That’s the way the world has always been. Why call us back now, and not one of the hundred other times this year that there’s been a crisis for someone somewhere in the world?” Jack asked. “What is so important it that made you break international law?” Winston was silent for a few moments before heaving a great sigh.

“Last night, Talon attacked the Watchpoint. They knew I was here, they were ready for a fight. They tried to hack Athena, to retrieve the personnel database. I’m not sure how much data may have been transmitted before we quarantined the worm, but…” He paused for a moment, glancing around the room. “Talon is working with someone. Someone who knows Overwatch inside and out. Someone who fights with two shotguns…like Commander Reyes did,” he added.

“Yeah, I got it, I’m picking up what you’re laying down,” Jack grumbled. Other than his complaint, and the uncomfortable shifting of several agents, the room was hauntingly silent. Angela’s gaze caught McCree’s for a moment before dropping away, pain and shame in her eyes.

“Sounds like things are worse than I thought,” McCree remarked, shrugging Reinhardt’s hands from his shoulders. “Had a bit of a dust-up with Talon myself, a few weeks back. Got caught up in a hypertrain robbery.”

“I heard that was _your_ handiwork,” Genji replied, something of a smirk in his tone.

“Reckon them underground news blogs’ll have the stories from _inside_ the train,” McCree replied, a sardonic edge to his tone. “Regardless, from what I saw, Talon’s been recruiting former Blackwatch assets. Agents, tech, you name it. If Reyes cheated death like you, Jack, and is working with Talon with our own former agents…”

“They’ve still got that sniper, too,” Tracer muttered, looking uncharacteristically upset about that statement. Tension filled every agent in the room—they knew _exactly_ which sniper Lena meant.

“As long as we’re telling stories about Talon, my company has been stepping up security around the Anubis facility. It recently attempted to break its quarantine, and our intelligence has been picking up increased chatter regarding God AIs from various criminal organizations—specifically cyberattacks from Talon,” Fareeha offered.

“…A truly precarious situation,” Genji remarked softly. “Our own resources will not be enough.”

“Don’t be so pessimistic, Genji,” Angela said, resting a hand on his shoulder.

“You misunderstand, Doctor,” he said, shaking his head, “We have been reactivated—there is no turning back. If we wish to make a difference, we must begin what my father called…‘aggressive expansion’.”

“You mean recruiting, love?” Lena asked, her eyes lighting up again.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Jack said, raising a hand, “This is still an illegal operation.”

“You don’t even want to be here anyway, Jack,” McCree said, glaring out of the corner of his eye for a moment. “…Unless you’re in?” he asked, smirking. It couldn’t be seen behind his visor, but Jack returned the smirk.

“Yeah, punk, I’m in.”

“Excellent!” Reinhardt cried, sweeping up the two men in a crushing hug. “Together, we shall seek justice once again!”


	2. Chapter 2

At first, McCree had his secret doubts about the recall. He’d left Overwatch before everything went over a cliff anyway, and he’d left for good reason. And yet when the call came in, he was on the first sonic jet to Spain. He had a responsibility, after all—he had made a promise to his family. Family he’d already betrayed once by leaving. Family that had welcomed him back without question, family that reconciled in the face of incalculable odds. It seemed Ana’s spirit was still with them, guiding the old guard.

He didn’t much like thinking of himself as old, though. Sitting next to Reinhardt or Morrison helped a bit on that front—in such company, he was downright cool. Tracer’s familiarity with him seemed to influence a lot of the other newer members, too, even though they hadn’t worked together long before her accident and his exit. Lúcio had even praised his ‘aesthetic’.

It didn’t take long to get back into the swing of things with the other former agents; even ones he hadn’t worked with much had a familiar rhythm that was easy to settle into, and given the skeleton crew that Overwatch was now illicitly running, finding that rhythm was the difference between life and death. Teaching the dance steps to the greenhorns, though, that was a whole other matter—one that McCree felt obligated to take on. The ones who had taught him how to be a proper Overwatch agent were few and far between, after all, and somebody had to help carry Ana’s torch. He owed her.

That was how he found himself volunteering for almost every mission that cropped up while dragging the new blood along for the ride. Sometimes, you just had to throw someone in the deep end, and it wasn’t like Morrison or Torbjörn were going to ask any bright-eyed, bushy-tailed kids to come along with them.

This mission was a bit of an exception. Only one new kid had stepped up to fight alongside all the old hands, the little firecracker with the mech suit. Her enthusiasm was palpable, and something about her cavalier attitude toward battle reminded him of himself. Another unusual exception was his name automatically entered at the top of the roster—they had been going into his gang’s old stomping grounds in Deadlock Gorge, and his expertise on the area was mission essential. For the most part, it had all gone smoothly, too, aside from a tense few moments following an “Oops” as Torbjörn defused a dirty bomb; the Deadlock Gang hadn’t changed up their M.O. too much since McCree left. Hell, even some of their passwords were still the same.

And so, high on their victory but still suspicious of an ambush in town, the team had retreated into the desert to await their extraction the next morning.

It felt like old times, sitting around the campfire under the star-filled night sky of his childhood. Reinhardt and Torbjörn loudly swapped stories, and Dr. Ziegler casually leaned against the leg of the mech suit as Genji and Hana discussed their own digital escapades. Quietly, McCree slipped around the ring of firelight, tapping Angela’s shoulder.

“Hey, Doc, there’s somethin’ I’ve gotta go take care of while I’m here. Nothin’ serious,” he added as she opened her mouth.

“Where are you going?” she asked, frowning slightly.

“Figured I might could go see my parents before we left,” he murmured. “Nobody needs to know, alright? I’ll be back by sun up,” he said, turning and walking off into the desert without another word.

* * *

D.Va frowned slightly as she hopped out of her MEKA at an old ranch-style gate, noting several large-caliber bullet holes in the tall posts. Her display had confirmed that McCree was around here _somewhere_ , and she was far too much of a nosy busybody to not track him down. Her hopes of maybe catching him secretly with an old boyfriend or something (the cockpit recorder had clearly picked him up saying he was visiting his parents, but she figured she’d lied plenty about places she was going to be, so why wouldn’t McCree?) were rapidly diminishing as more of the property came into view, only partially illuminated by the moonlight. A few deformed buildings dotted the landscape, black and eerily silent. It didn’t make sense—nobody lived here…

Her stomach lurched at the realization.

Nobody _lived_ here.

The soft sound of a harmonica grabbed her attention immediately, her head swinging around to try to spot its source. Hana skirted around the husk of a building, the scent of fire still lingering around the solid shadow that rose from the silvery desert floor, swallowing up all of the pale moonlight that struck it.

McCree’s hat was hung off the end of the hitching post he leaned against, a soft ballad drifting out of his cupped hands. She listened for a moment, transfixed, when suddenly the music stopped.

“Hana!” McCree called, only the rough sketch of an expression visible in the moonlight, “The hell you doin’ here?”

“I’m sorry!” Hana began, stepping away from the building a bit and rubbing her wrist in a nervous gesture, “When you didn’t come back, I got worried, and Mercy wouldn’t say where you went, so I snuck off after she went to sleep.”

“You shouldn’t be out here by yourself,” McCree frowned. “Desert’s dangerous at night. There’s coyotes an’ rattlesnakes an’ scorpions. Used to be mountain lions ‘round here, too. Ain’t sure if they’re still around, but they’ll kill you real good.”

“ _You’re_ here by yourself,” Hana replied, her hands on her hips.

“I lived here. I can get by,” McCree replied, shifting to get comfortable again. He heaved a great sigh and shook his head. “Well, now that you’re here, don’t go off alone again. Just stick close, alright?”

“Okay,” she sighed, approaching the hitching post with a touch of uncertainty. “Sorry for bothering you.”

“’S alright, I ain’t mad,” McCree replied softly, putting his harmonica back in his left pocket, where it had always been kept. “Just catching up.” Hana frowned slightly, cocking her head to the side.

“Catching up?”

“Since you’re here, y’ might as well meet my folks,” McCree said with a little sigh. He slung an arm around her shoulders and pulled her a few feet to her left. “This here on the right is my papa,” he began, gesturing toward a large stone barely visible in the shadows—the biggest one he’d been able to move as a kid. “His name was Bill—but Mama always called him Will. Don’t know why, but nobody else was allowed to, so I guess it was a name just for her.” Silence reigned for a moment as they stood in front of the humbly marked grave, Hana uncomfortably waiting for the silence to break. Cemeteries had always creeped her out, but she didn’t want to be rude in front of someone’s parents’ graves.

“Papa taught me pert near everything I know ‘bout being a man,” he continued softly. “Taught me how to ride, how to shoot, how to play music…how to look out for the ones what matter most to you.” He gave her shoulder a little squeeze and guided her farther along the burned remnants of a wall.

“An’ this here is my mama,” he murmured, standing in front of another large stone. “Her name was Maria. You’d’ve liked her, she was a real pistol. Though I’m ‘fraid she wouldn’t think much of someone makin’ a living playing video games,” he said with a little smile. “She had no use for useless people.”

“Hey!”

“Not that you’re useless,” he chuckled, “But ‘less you could pull your weight on the ranch, you were good as useless in her eyes. She didn’t think much of city folk. Even Amarillo was too big for her tastes.” Another little sigh left him, and he shook his head. “She wanted to make sure I could make it there, though, even if she couldn’t. She made sure I knew how to handle myself around highfalutin city folk, sent me off to school, stood over me every night to make sure I finished my homework. Taught me responsibility, respect, an’ what it means to give everything for your family. She taught me Spanish, too, wanted to make sure I could talk to mi abuelos,” he smiled.

“I didn’t know you spoke Spanish,” Hana remarked, smiling back up at him.

“I ain’t done in a long time, perdón, Mama,” he laughed softly, his mechanical hand running through his hair in an embarrassed sort of way. “Used it a lot more back in the old days…Overwatch always had a lot of languages floatin’ around the Watchpoints. I miss that…” he added, a wistful tone in his voice. He took a few steps backward and sat down on the hardpan, pulling his harmonica back out of his pocket and patting the ground next to him. After his earlier warnings, she took a moment to check for snakes and creepy-crawlies before sitting cross-legged next to him.

“’Fraid you won’t know most of the songs I know—ain’t exactly up on the new stuff Lúcio plays or nothin’,” McCree warned, another melody filling the cool night air. It was true, she didn’t recognize it, though it was sad and sweet and sounded exactly like what a cowboy should play; she felt like she had stepped into a scene from Six-Gun Killer.

“Didn’t think you were so sensitive, McCree,” she smiled, giving him a little nudge which he returned with brotherly affection. “Do you take requests?”

“Depends. Whatcha got?”

“Do you know any 10-Shun?”

“Can’t say I do,” McCree frowned.

“2byTu?”

“Nope.”

“iKon?” she frowned, racking her brain for what played on the Oldies channels back home.

“Why don’t you try something from my hemisphere?” he asked, giving her another nudge.

“Ummm…how about the Beatles? You should know them, they’re old,” she grinned.

“Watch yer mouth,” he chuckled, though he didn’t offer any protest as he adjusted the key dial and locked it down, playing a few quick glissandos to check the tuning. Gently, he began to coax Hey Jude out of the old harp, Hana swaying slowly in time next to him. Her smile grew wider as the cowboy started to jazz it up a bit; riffing on old classics had been a favorite pastime on the range with papa and the other ranch hands, so McCree knew he’d appreciate it.

“Hey, why don’t you play for everybody more often?” Hana asked, tipping her head to the side.

“Back in my old gang, it drove ‘em up the wall when I played,” McCree began. “An’ I like Overwatch a lot better n’ Deadlock, so I figured I’d give ‘em reprieve. I just play on my own now, don’t get near so many death threats now.”

“Well they’re a bunch of jerks,” Hana huffed, crossing her arms.

“Alright, my turn. Y’know this one?” he asked, raising the harmonica to his lips again. “Careful, it’s old,” he smirked, gently beginning to blow a slow, familiar tune.

“Oh yeah! _Somewhere over the rainbow, way up hiiiigh_ ,” she began to sing, a smile on her face as her voice cut through the night high and clear. She was a Korean celebrity—she’d probably been forced to take at least a few singing lessons, McCree figured. Soon, however, her expression changed to one of concentration as he moved on to the bridge. “Arrgh, I don’t remember the words.” McCree lowered his harmonica and, with a sigh, leaned back against the hitching post.

“ _Someday I’ll wish upon a star, and wake up where the clouds are far behind me_ ,” he continued, his tone considerably rougher and less refined, though he seemed to have no trouble with the high key.

“Aww, you have a nice voice, McCree,” Hana grinned.

“I really don’t,” he chuckled, glad that the silver moonlight and shadows could hide the red in his cheeks. His high singing voice had always been something of an embarrassment for him…but Papa had been a tenor, too, so he wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting when his voice finally settled. “That’s why I let my harpoon do the singing for me. It sounds a might better.”

“No, you sound very American,” she laughed, giving him another little push.

“Well I’m fixing to go back t’ sounding like somebody who just plays the harmonica, so hush your mouth,” McCree said, quickly raising his harp again and finishing the song at a rather accelerated tempo. Couldn’t leave a tune unfinished, it’d drive them both crazy.

A few more tunes of his choice and a few more _interesting_ requests from Hana, and McCree finally tucked his harmonica back into his pocket, reaching for his hat. “Better get a move on,” he said, rising from the cool ground and stretching.

“Alright. Sorry again, about following you,” Hana said, standing and brushing off her legs.

“Nah, no big deal,” McCree said, waving off her apology. “…I’m actually kind of glad you came. ‘Cause there’s one last person you need to meet,” he said softly, stepping a few paces away and hefting up another nearby stone, dropping it next to the other markers.

“…Who’s this one for?” she asked, watching from a distance.

“…My other mother,” he said softly, beckoning her over. “Her name was Ana Amari. She was all of our mother, really,” he murmured. “Don’t know where she’s buried—she was killed in a hostage rescue mission a little while after I left Overwatch.” He opened his mouth to continue, but no words came. They were choked off by something he hadn’t felt in a long time, that rattlesnake twisted around his throat like a noose, it’s icy venom dripping into his ear, over his tongue, into his heart…

‘You abandoned them. You abandoned your family, and she died without you. You’re guilty, Jesse McCree…’

“Oh yeah, she was one of the founders, wasn’t she?” Hana said, looking up at McCree, his expression hidden in the shadows.

“Yes, ma’am, she was,” he said softly. “Best damn sharpshooter in the world. Everything my mama and papa taught me, she taught me to do better. ‘Cept play the harmonica,” he attempted to joke, but the chuckle caught in his throat, steely fangs piercing down on that bubble of laughter, dragging it back into the black sinkhole in his gut that was growing deeper and wider by the second. He swallowed past the strangling feeling, bowing his head.

“When Overwatch brought me in, I wasn’t worth nothin’. I was a no-good, murderin’, thievin’ dog. Didn’t have no right to call myself a man. My life was paid for in blood by my mama an’ papa, an’ I went and wasted that. Then Overwatch paid for me in blood, too—I had a heavy debt to pay back. But Ana…she kept me on the straight and narrow. Gave me a family again. She…she trusted me.” McCree rubbed at his face vigorously, as if he could wipe the pain and regret away before it could stain his cheeks.

Hana didn’t hesitate. She reached out and wrapped her arms around his chest, hugging him as tightly as her skinny frame would allow.

“We trust you, McCree,” she said into his chest armor, smiling warmly. “You’re a good man. _All_ your parents raised you right.”

“I’m hopin’ that’s so,” he murmured, giving her a tight squeeze in return as the specter of his other father haunted the edge of his thoughts.


	3. Chapter 3

“I cannot tell you how joyful this makes me, brother,” Genji said, his tone pleasant but calm. Hanzo walked beside him, his brow still wrinkled. He felt as though he was in a dream—this being spoke with Genji’s voice, and he’d looked into this creature’s eyes and saw a soul he recognized, but only as if from another life. Everything about this Genji was unfamiliar. It unnerved Hanzo in a way he couldn’t explain.

“Hm,” he toned in response, somewhat aware that his silence had stretched into rudeness.

“Now that our efforts are united, we can begin to right our family’s wrongs.”

“Hm.”

“There are so many people I am excited for you to meet,” Genji added, hopeful that Hanzo would get along with at least one of them. Perhaps Commander Morrison would be sufficiently serious for him, or Dr. Ziegler might interest him with discussions of the medical technology which had saved his life. There were a few who ought to be kept clear, no doubt, and a few wild cards…

The brothers rounded the corner and caught a flash of red and a whiff of cigar smoke. Hanzo reacted in an instant, his bow drawn and his entire body coiled and ready to strike. Genji noted that McCree had drawn his gun as well, though his stance was a good deal more relaxed.

“JESSE MCCREE!” Hanzo roared, his lips pulled back in a snarl.

“Well now, if it ain’t Hanzo Shimada,” McCree smirked, tipping his hat.

“...I take it you two know each other?” Genji said, rather at a loss for what else could possibly be said.

“We had a little dust-up back in the good ol’ days,” McCree said, watching Hanzo with a hawk-like gaze. “The Mboke assassination, wasn’t it?” he asked, shooting a boyish grin his way. Of course it was—how could he forget that incident?

“You stole my target!” Hanzo snarled.

“Hey now, only one of us was gonna get that kill—and I never miss my mark,” McCree replied, giving a cocky toss of the head.

“You humiliated me!” he spat, almost trembling with rage, heat rising in his cheeks.

“Coulda killed you,” McCree replied, shrugging. “But I didn’t. Jes’ wanted you off your game.”

“You could _not_ have killed me,” Hanzo growled.

“Ain’t that hard to kill a man passed-out drunk.”

“I was not that drunk!” he spat, growing more and more flustered as McCree needled him. “You—you—!” Hanzo sputtered, grinding his teeth; he was the image of fury. “I’ll kill you someday, Jesse McCree! Mark my words!”

“Best of luck, pardner,” McCree smirked, holstering his gun with a casual spin. “You just make sure it’s really the perfect opportunity—don’t go wastin’ me before the most poetical moment comes along, or you’ll hate yourself forever.”


	4. Chapter 4

Everyone was rightly leery of missions involving Talon. Like the sun and moon, Talon had only grown in strength and influence as Overwatch had decayed. 

The climb back up was going to be doubly difficult, as well. In the mind of the international community, they were both merely extranational illegal militaries, which didn’t tend to be a popular tagline to put on recruiting posters. And Talon had resources Overwatch didn’t—a lack of morals made that easy, along with a more up-to-date set of contacts in the criminal underground; one ex-Deadlock gangster and the former head of the now mortally crippled Shimada clan didn’t make for a particularly powerful set of clandestine allies. Nothing like what Talon now had.

But Talon’s power was as fragile as moonlight—their resources were not endless, and their presence stepped on a lot of toes. Overwatch had been able to throw its weight around thanks to its legitimacy as a UN-sanctioned organization and the warm fuzzy feelings that blue overcoat gave people, but even then they’d made powerful enemies. Talon themselves, for example. But without that public adoration and the blank checks to keep them afloat, Talon’s dominance in the seedy underbelly of the world was always precariously poised, one bad day away from being torn apart by ambitious rivals.

Finding the perfect moment to give them a shove from that perch was Overwatch’s current raison d’etre.

 

“Bad news, everybody,” Winston sighed, “It looks like Talon is positioning themselves in central Japan.”

“What they got there that’s so interesting?” Lena asked, cocking her head to one side.

“Analysis suggests they’re trying to capture weapons and supplies from the Shimada clan,” Winston said, looking over at Genji. Genji merely peered back politely.

“I don’t have the information you need. My brother was entrusted with the organization’s secrets.” There was a quiet scoff at Genji’s words.

“We never kept our ‘merchandise’ inside Japan for long,” Hanzo muttered, “It was too great a liability. Talon will find nothing of value.”

“What about information?” Jack asked, crossing his arms. “Couldn’t they hack in and steal data?”

“Hardly,” Hanzo chuckled. “Everything is still written down on paper.”

“That explains why they’re in town, then,” Torbjörn remarked, “They have to actually go in and steal something.”

“Sounds like they need a little ‘negative reinforcement’,” Fareeha smirked, cracking her knuckles.

* * *

“Winston. You don’t have to go and give everything an official number anymore. It’s just us,” Jack frowned.

“Well, it’s good for recordkeeping,” Winston replied, pinning the sign-up sheet labeled ‘Mission Number A-JP-482-#1’. “And seeing how this mission is over how other people keep records…”

“Think you’re pretty funny, huh,” Jack muttered, though he did chuckle as he walked away. Hanzo’s name was already defaulted to the top of the list.

The mission roster was quickly swarmed, thought it wasn’t the usual crush of new recruits volunteering. When it came to missions against Talon, too many of the older members had skin in the game.

“Aw man,” Lucio pouted, “I always wanted to go to Japan…couldn’t somebody swap places with me? Doc? Commander?”

“Sorry, love,” Tracer smiled, giving him a little pat on the bicep. “Maybe next time we’ll get a crack at those Talon wankers.” The cheerful way in which she spoke almost let her get away with the swear.

“Hey hey hey, my ears are delicate,” Lucio grinned for a moment, before turning back longingly to the list. Hanzo, Genji, McCree, 76, Winston, Mercy… “Would anybody notice if I added an extra line underneath?”

“You’re too wet behind those delicate ears, kid,” Jack said, “We need as much experience as we can bring to bear on this one.”

“Hanzo’s new!” Lucio whined.

“Hanzo has mission-critical knowledge. He doesn’t have a choice—he’s going on this mission.”

“‘Sides, he n’ Genji know the lay of the land, and no offense, they got a lot more combat experience than you, compadre,” McCree replied, his hat pulled low. He tossed the butt of his cigar to the floor and crushed it out under his heel with particular disdain, turning and slowly retreating from the common room. He didn’t want to argue the point any further—while he was normally happy to bring any one of the new kids along on a mission, this one didn’t come with training wheels. Going toe to toe with Talon needed tight teamwork, that muscle memory that came from working side by side with someone for years.

It was bad enough that Hanzo would be there. He had too much bad blood with both himself and Genji just at the Watchpoint, let alone on a mission. Best to steer clear until the mission briefings—break out that politeness that he hadn’t had much call for in a while.

The salty Mediterranean air filling his nose only did the slightest bit to calm him. It certainly brought back memories, bittersweet and distant as a mouthful of sarsaparilla under the summer sun.

‘Aim with your eye. Shoot with your mind. Kill with your heart.’

‘That’s from a book, that is,’ McCree had said, grinning widely as he peered into the scope.

‘It’s good advice.’

‘There’s a seagull out on that rock.’

‘Don’t shoot it, it hasn’t done anything wrong.’

‘Gon’ scare the shit out of it, at least.’

‘Language,’ she had scolded, though her tone was playful. ‘You’re taking too long again.’

‘Yer distractin me,’ he muttered, though she had sat as still as a stone—the way Papa could sit still as death watching the herd at night.

‘You think there won’t be distractions in the field? Aim. Fire.’

The memory of that rifle’s crack like thunder could still shake the very breath in his lungs. The way it kicked like an angry bull, the way pulling that trigger felt like wielding the power of the old gods had given him new, visceral respect for Ana’s ability. He lived only by her grace—she could have taken his head clean off his shoulders with this rifle that day on Route 66…

‘…You missed.’

He’d always hated disappointing her. She was just like Papa that way, too…

“Jesse?” He almost didn’t hear the call over the sound of the waves below and the memory of Ana’s disappointed sigh. He turned after a few long moments, surprised to see Angela there.

“Howdy, Doc,” he murmured, turning back to the sea again.

“You’ve been awfully quiet. Are you going to be alright?”

“I’m doin’ jes fine, Doc. Got my mind on this mission, is all,” he replied, speaking to the mist and foam below.

“That’s what I’m worried about. Will there be trouble between you and Hanzo?” she asked, crossing her arms and stepping closer.

“Ain’t too concerned with that,” McCree said, his eyes searching out that old target practice rock—the red paint had been scoured away by wind and surf, but that outline was branded into his memory so starkly that even without a scope, he could pick it out just beyond the lighthouse.

“…Well, _I’m_ worried about it,” Angela frowned. “He swore to kill you.”

“Aww, Angela, you worryin’ after me?” McCree asked, glancing over his shoulder and chuckling softly.

“Just because we have our differences doesn’t mean I want you murdered,” she smiled.

“Well, thank y’ kindly,” he nodded, turning away again. “Naw, I’m thinkin’ about Talon. An’ Reyes,” he added, frowning at the way the man’s name tasted in his mouth now, greasy and acrid with hints of silver and gunpowder. Reyes wasn’t the only one on his mind, either, his expression hardening as the moments wore on.

“Is it true? ‘Bout their sniper?” he asked, looking back over his shoulder. His gaze was as sharp as chips of flint, and the weight of all his years and kills settled into the lines of his face, hardening the longer his thoughts lingered on Talon’s living weapon. Angela almost flinched at his look, unused to seeing the cowboy so steely and harsh. His boyish charm from only moments before had evaporated away, leaving the battle-worn Blackwatch warrior behind—the McCree she’d always hated, the McCree she’d always feared.

“…What about them?” she asked quietly, as if afraid to startle him into action.

“That it’s Amélie,” he growled. Gérard had worked closely with Blackwatch in his counterterrorism work—he and Amélie were family. When McCree had helped bring her back home, everyone thought the nightmare was over. Gérard’s blood was on his hands, too…and if Gérard’s blood was on his hands… “That she killed Ana,” he rasped, his voice blending with the wind and the foam below, icy venom rising like bile in his throat.

Angela couldn’t stand against that deadly gaze. When she finally looked away, she was able to breathe again—how had she grown so comfortable among such deadly creatures as these? How had the fact that the other agents treated Hanzo’s threat like a joke bleed into her own life? She barely even flinched when she saw guns being drawn anymore…was it hubris? Was she so confident in her skill as a healer now that such petty concerns as the death of her friends didn’t trouble her? …Was she really so sure she had improved since Zürich?

Or had her own humanity started to slip away? ‘Man is the only animal that fears death’…what was she if she no longer feared the grave? She dared to look up again, his gaze still boring into her, burning with righteous fire. She swallowed, clenching her hands to hide the trembling in her fingers.

She still feared death.

“I don’t know,” she replied, her voice soft. “It’s only rumors…” The fiery glint in his eye told her that it was truth enough for him.

“I’ll kill her,” he whispered, “I swear on all that’s good an’ holy, I’ll kill her.”

There was no taking his threat lightly.

* * *

“You’re covered, Doctor—let’s get out of here!”

“Damn, think they’re a little pissed off?”

“I cannot blame them.”

“Keep the chatter down and don’t get split up!”

“Sniper at 10 high, got yer cover fire—”

“Genji, clear the lane, Hanzo, watch our flank—”

“Kuso—!”

“Genji! Report!”

“She’s here—2:00 high coming out of the castle. I am going to dislodge her.”

“I’m coming to help—Commander, cover Angela—”

“The right flank is clear. Follow me if you dare.”

“We _don’t_ dare, Hanzo, ain’t none of us can climb like you ‘n Genji. We need another route.”

“Tch, fine.”

“Don’t you ‘tch’ me, jes’ find us a new exit.”

“Gah! I’m hit!”

“Doc and I are moving up. Don’t trickle out—McCree, Hanzo, get your asses in gear!”

“Coverin’ your six, sir.”

“I will take the high ground.”

“I’ve got you, Winston, don’t worry!”

“The sniper has moved to a new location. Anija, do you see anything?”

“No. Scout ahead, make sure the path is clear.”

“Yosh.”

“Shit! Hanzo, 5 tangos comin’ up the left side, watch yer back!”

“I said don’t get split up!”

“Go on, Jack—we’ll pin ‘em down back here an’ meet you at the extraction point.”

“ _Damnit, McCree, you're not pulling this shit, too!_ ”

“I'm comin’ out at yer 7, Hanzo, hang on!”

“Genji, help Angela and Winston get to the extraction p—gah!”

“Jack!”

“Tch, sniper’s back—”

“Jes’ go! We’ll catch up!”

“It is a pincer attack—disengage, Commander!”

“We don’t leave men behind—YOU disengage!”

“Barrier is failing, sir, we’re sitting ducks!”

“McCree, I swear to—”

McCree muted his comm with a growl, fanning the hammer on his pistol into the backline of their attackers. He needed to focus, and the last thing he needed was Morrison nagging in his ear. “One down—You alright, Hanzo?”

“For now,” Hanzo replied, his arrow scattering and lodging in another soldier’s throat.

“Head down,” McCree ordered coolly as he reloaded, drawing a steadying breath as he took a moment to aim. He could only get a clear shot on two—damn. He'd take what he could get, though, this wasn't about notches in rifle stocks. Hanzo was one of the few people alive now who knew the locations of Shimada assets, bank accounts, weapons caches, the works. Letting him fall into Talon’s hands was unacceptable.

Shots rang out and two Talon agents fell, one tumbling from the parapet and falling to the wooden floor of the castle with a heavy crunch. Orders of ‘fall back and regroup’ were yelled as McCree leaped across to the parapet, hurrying to Hanzo’s side.

“Nice shot,” Hanzo remarked, his tone dry as he clutched at a wound in his shoulder.

“Got yourself a nice little mosquito bite there,” McCree remarked, giving him a crooked smile. “Don’t you fret, Doc’ll get you patched up real nice.”

“I am not worried,” Hanzo frowned, “We have to hurry.”

“You jes’ watch my back,” McCree smirked, “Sure hate for someone else to kill me before your perfect chance comes up, right?”

“I expect you to die in no other way,” Hanzo replied, smirking through the pain. “Let us try the far wall. We will have cover through the courtyard, at least.”

“Sounds like a plan,” McCree nodded, hurrying past the window. “Oh! One last request, if I may.”

“What is it?” Hanzo asked, frowning.

“That sniper. She’s mine,” McCree growled. Hanzo merely shrugged, hurrying past McCree. He certainly understood grudges and rivalries, but he cared little for other people’s troubles. For now, it was merely a matter of completing the mission and getting home alive. Hanzo’s footfalls were like a cat’s as he lead the way down the parapet, McCree following noisily behind, their eyes focused out into the courtyard.

“Down!” Hanzo barked, drawing his bow and firing on a dark-clad agent in a high window, hissing all the while. He crouched behind the wall and took a steadying breath, glaring at his wounded shoulder in frustration. His preoccupation distracted him from the wordless ‘crunch’ as the dead target met the earth.

“That don’t look so good,” McCree murmured, kneeling next to him.

“It is nothing,” Hanzo growled, “My aim is not harmed.”

“Ain’t your aim I’m worried about,” McCree said, his gaze flicking from the other man’s bleeding wound to his stony expression. “Your speed. How well you climb. All that’s gon’ be damaged besides your aim.”

“I will manage,” Hanzo snapped, though McCree had a feeling that it was his pain talking rather than his burning hatred. “We need to keep under cover,” he continued, taking a few deep breaths to steady himself.

“That courtyard out yonder’s gonna be a bitch,” McCree remarked.

“It is a garden,” Hanzo corrected.

“If you like,” McCree shrugged. “But that sniper can take us out any which way no matter what we call it. Any cover through there?”

“…Cross to the right here,” Hanzo advised, “Take the stairs inside the tower to the high ground.”

“Alright, stick close,” McCree nodded, adjusting his hat and creeping forward, gun drawn. They could hear a few Talon agents scuttling about, but he was confident they hadn’t picked out their position. His Peacekeeper would change that… “Reckon we should prolly keep things quiet,” McCree mused.

“An impossible task for you,” Hanzo muttered.

“Not ‘silent’, jes ‘quiet’,” he smirked, darting forward, whipping around the part in the wall and rolling into the gazebo. No gunfire—that was good. Quiet. Hanzo sighed and quickly followed, silent as a shadow as they leaped over the most recent downed agent, taking cover in the shadows. “That makes all five from before, ain’t it?” McCree asked, nodding toward the body outside. “Got some time to move.”

“We still must be wary of the sniper,” Hanzo added, looking up the stairs before darting forward, an arrow knocked as McCree followed for this leg of the trip, watching their exposed flank as they moved for the next tower. Just a moment out of cover could be life or death, after all.

But there was nothing.

“I don’t like this,” McCree muttered, following Hanzo up the steep stairs. “The hell she at?”

“You cross the garden first. I will cover you from there,” Hanzo said, gesturing to a high walkway around the belfry.

“No can do,” McCree said, shaking his head. “I ain’t leavin’ you anywhere.”

“My wound is not so debilitating,” Hanzo frowned.

“That ain’t it. You’re my new objective.”

“I beg your pardon?!” Hanzo spat, his eyes widening for a moment.

“If Talon gets their mitts on you, everythin’ we done here today ain’t worth nothin’. Best case scenario there is you die alone, headshot, an’ then I just wanna kill that damn sniper all the more—everythin’ else is downhill. But my mission now is to get this here payload back to the extraction point, whatever the cost, an’ that’s exactly what I’m gon’ do,” McCree explained softly, as if speaking too loudly would draw the sniper’s fire from a thousand yards off.

“We are going into a sniper’s view,” Hanzo growled. “If we stay together, we are both dead. Separate, perhaps we can counter.” McCree sighed, shaking his head.

“Yer good, Hanzo…but she’s better than you,” McCree murmured. Hanzo merely scoffed in response.

“We shall see.” McCree opened his mouth, a touch incensed at Hanzo’s remark, but he reined himself in. Hanzo had no idea what McCree’s yardstick for snipers was. “Clear the garden, so we may walk with only one concern.”

“…Alright, but I’d feel a lot better if y’ were behind some cover…that walkway’s awful open,” McCree remarked.

“It is no worse than our planned route,” Hanzo remarked, gesturing toward the walkway connecting to the next building.

“Can y’ make it up there?” McCree asked, looking back at Hanzo’s bleeding shoulder.

“Of course,” he replied, his typical arrogant confidence shining through the pain. He leaped from the window, rolling through his landing and leaving a red stain on the stone where he landed—he had suffered far worse in his life. He grit his teeth as he scaled the wall, his heart quickening slightly as he heard the crack of a sniper rifle and the roar of a high-powered round streaking by behind him. The boom of McCree’s pistol echoed the sniper, the sound of spent shells clattering to the ground below amplified by adrenaline.

“Damn, missed her!” McCree spat, reloading as Hanzo hurried forward, peering out from the corner of the building before firing a sonic arrow, listening intently. He held up his thumb and forefinger—McCree nodded and replied with two raised fingers. Americans. He disappeared from sight before bursting into view along the walkway firing two shots along with the harsh thrum of a bow. Two bodies fell; clean kills, but no dead snipers. McCree vaulted over the railing and peeked up at Hanzo, no worse for wear from his perch, flashing him a thumbs up before he slipped through the shadows toward the other doorway.

“Clear!” he called, peering through the massive gates out into the town proper. His gaze raked the rooftops as he listened for Hanzo’s approach, the crunch of gravel followed by his light footsteps reassuring him. He would never admit Hanzo may have been right about this approach. “How you wanna do this next leg?” he asked, taking a moment to glance back at the other man.

“There are no safe routes through the town,” Hanzo murmured, “There are many alleyways and windows and patios to fire from.”

“What’s yer best option?”

“The best I can offer is to empty my quiver of sonic arrows—move cautiously.”

“Y’ ain’t got an infinite supply of those things, Hanzo,” McCree murmured, “And if we take too long, we’re done.”

“Very well, let us hear _your_ suggestion,” Hanzo frowned. McCree sighed, pulling back from the doorway a bit.

“…I’ll go first, you follow behind. If she takes me out, then you’ll know where she’s at.”

“McCree!”

“You know this town—I don’t. You can make it back through all them alleyways a lot better n’ I can.” He paused, giving Hanzo a weary smile. “If’n she don’t kill me with the first shot, you go ahead and finish me. Don’ let that bitch steal your kill, too,” he winked.

“This is not the way,” Hanzo replied, frustrated—he certainly didn’t want to have such a glorious, skilled, infuriating rival get gunned down like a dog in the street. There was no honor in such a death, and certainly no honor in killing him like a wounded animal. Genji would be terribly upset with such an outcome, as well…and he wasn’t sure he wanted to be followed by vengeful ghosts, tormenting him for letting an ally die in such a way.

“You tell everybody I wanted it that-a way,” McCree said, reaching out to squeeze Hanzo’s shoulder but hesitating at his wound—his steel hand came to rest surprisingly gently on Hanzo’s arm for a moment before he reached up to tip his hat, one final salute to an honored rival. “Good luck.”

McCree dashed through the gate, his arm raised as if it could protect him from a sniper’s bullets like rain. He supposed, assuming the sniper wasn’t on his right, that his arm might be sufficiently armored to deflect a sniper’s round. He knew it was enough for small arms, but he’d certainly never put it to the test quite like _that…_

He felt the crack of the rifle in his body the same way he’d felt it when he’d trained. He wasn’t sure he _heard_ it at all, over the sound of that armor-piercing round ripping through his arm, pistons rupturing and delicate wires snapping and his arm _exploding_ with pain. Pain far beyond what he’d felt when he lost his arm the first time. Pain worse than getting kicked in the chest by an angry horse when he was a boy. Pain upon pain.

He collapsed to the ground in a heap, screaming into the pavement as he clutched his arm to his chest, blue ichor spraying out of it like neon-bright blood, his joints quickly starting to seize up and grind without lubricant while his hand hung on by one twisted, blackened strip of steel. He squirmed and thrashed blindly like an angry drunken fool, praying to any god that would listen that Hanzo would just put him out of his damn misery already.

He heard footsteps, but they certainly didn’t belong to Hanzo. They were slow, measured, tortuously long strides, each step sounding with the ‘click’ of a high heel. He rolled over and attempted to raise his gun, but he could hardly see straight for the pain, let alone aim with the way his breath was coming and going in quick, pained pants. One of those high-heeled boots crunched down on the remains of his forearm, earning another scream of agony from the man.

“Like mother, like son,” she smirked, raising her rifle and, for a touch of poetry, aimed for his eye. McCree grit his teeth and bared them like an animal, focusing his tunneled vision on the sniper’s face. Her face was so distant, but the pain focused what would have been a foggy memory into sharp relief.

Amélie.

 _Judas_.

Time stretched to infinity between his hatred and pain. Her eye slowly closed as she looked down her scope. His fingers spasmed, the signal to a few of them lost in the severed wires, arcing and crackling in slow motion. Footfalls somewhere in the distance. A phrase he couldn’t translate, but which he understood perfectly.

“ _RYUU GA WAGA TEKI O KURAU!_ ”

McCree heard a few rounds fire from the rifle before the sound was swallowed up in the thunderous roar of the dragons, their maws wide and their eyes wild. Somewhere in the deep rumble, he heard Amélie’s cry, and he squeezed his eyes closed against the lightning flash of Hanzo’s beasts. They swept over him with an electric thrum, pushing him down the road, a cry half of surprise and half of pain leaving him at the sensation. He tumbled slightly, watching with fading vision as the dragons gave chase, lunging and surging after his would-be murderer, consumed with a hunger that would not be slaked without traitorous blood.

At least, that was what he hoped as his vision dimmed, the echo of a voice calling his name rattling in his ear as he faded.

* * *

McCree awoke with a gasp, his eyes wide and his arm somehow both painful and numb. His stomach lurched as he looked at where his hand ought to have been, finding only empty space.

His arm was gone. Again.

“Relax,” came a rough voice at his side, his head whipping around to find its source. “It was doing more harm than good. I removed it.”

“Hanzo,” McCree gasped, struggling to find his breath. “The sniper…!”

“I have seen neither hide nor hair of her,” Hanzo murmured, gently pushing McCree back onto the futon he had prepared.

“Where are we?”

“A safehouse,” Hanzo answered, keeping his hand on McCree’s shoulder as he tried to rise again. “Keep quiet.” McCree swallowed back his stumbling questions and attempted to relax, but the aches in his body—phantom limbs included—made him restless.

“The others,” he whispered, his gaze flicking around the dark room for a moment before landing on Hanzo again, “Where’s the extraction?”

“The enemy focused their attack on the dropship. They were forced to depart without us. Another flight is en route. We will be leaving in a few hours. Rest for now.”

McCree reached over to his stump, feeling the cold metal connectors embedded in his flesh and restraining a whimper of discomfort. He’d had his prosthesis for so long, he’d come to forget that it wasn’t what he was born with— _not_ having the metal limb was supremely unnatural. Still, he’d take the numb tingling of absence over the fiery pain that he knew his arm held any day. McCree tried to settle on the thin futon, his stump jerking upward with almost every movement he made as he tried to get used to not having so much weight at the end of his arm. It was frustrating.

“Please move slowly,” Hanzo advised, “You also have several bullet wounds.”

“Do I?” McCree asked, frowning. That would explain why he still hurt so much… “Must not’ve noticed.”

“Indeed,” Hanzo sniffed. What else could the cowboy have expected, if he ran around in front of everything like he did? The doctor’s technology was incredible, indeed, but it wouldn’t remove bullets outside of an operating room. Silence settled over the room again for a long moment—only because McCree’s attention was momentarily elsewhere. Almost the instant his head touched the bean-stuffed pillow once again, his gaze turned.

“Why didn’t you do it?” he asked, blinking up at Hanzo. “Y’ coulda done me in. Picked that kill clean out from under her nose. Or here—I was passed slick out.”

“It would not have been right,” Hanzo murmured. “I am not a scavenger, picking off the weak. When I kill you, it will be because I am _better_ than you, Jesse McCree, not because you were unlucky. My victory shall be honorable. Your death will be glorious.”

“Now why do I got the feelin’ that you've been practicin’ that line since we got here?” McCree asked, giving Hanzo a crooked smile.

“Because you are so predictable,” Hanzo replied, smirking. “I am surprised that it took this long for you to ask.”

McCree laughed weakly, his eyes sliding shut as he gently shook his head. “This keeps happenin’ to me.”

“Hm?”

“Y’all keep sparin’ my life.” His eyes fluttered open again after a moment, the face he saw behind his eyelids too painful to look at right now. “…Last time someone had such a clear shot on me, they spared me, too.”

“What did you do?” Hanzo asked, motionless in the semi-darkness. McCree was struck with a strange feeling of déjà vu.

“I loved her like a mother,” he rasped into the darkness. “More’n anyone else, she had my loyalty. More’n Jack. Helluva lot more’n Reyes. More’n Overwatch itself,” he whispered. He glanced up at Hanzo, a wry smile coming to his lips. “You done messed up now, son—y’ain’t never gonna be rid of me.”

Hanzo rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “Does the saying not go ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer’?”

“Sure do,” McCree chuckled. “Though the idea is that I’m a friend now.”

“We shall see,” Hanzo replied, though even in the dark, McCree could see his smile.


	5. Chapter 5

 McCree growled softly as he furiously wriggled his fingers, glaring across the room. “C’mon…c’mon now…”

“Uh…Jesse?” Winston asked, looking up from his workstation as Athena ran various diagnostics. His new prosthesis seized and spasmed on the table, connected to both McCree’s arm and the computer by several feet of wires while Athena uploaded the sensitivity settings from his original prosthetic. “What are you doing?”

“Tryn’a get it to flip over n’ run aroun’ like that hand from The Addams Family,” McCree replied. Truth be told, seeing his arm disconnected made him sick to his stomach, and the sensation of being physically hooked up to Athena was just as disorienting—like having multiple arms all in different positions at once. Any distraction from that was welcome. Winston stared at him for a moment, before reaching over and flipping the arm over.

“Thanks,” McCree grinned, straightening his fingers and willing his hand to scuttle across the countertop, dragging the heavy forearm behind. The connection sleeve above the elbow wriggled and flexed occasional like a whale’s fluke, sending little waves and flicks through the connecting wires.

“That is unsettling,” Winston remarked, retreating slightly as the arm crawled his way, the fingers rapping rhythmically on the desktop as if considering how to approach.

“Sure is weird, right?” McCree grinned, nudging aside a peanut butter jar lid with his pinky before exploring behind the keyboard, the connecting cords quickly growing taut. “Ow! Ow ow ow, c’mon back now,” he coaxed, as if the arm were an animal independent of his will. Backing up was a significantly less dextrous affair, his arm lumbering backwards like an elephant seal. “Good thing I ain’t gotta do this too much in my work, huh?”

The door swung open, Jack’s tall frame filling it more with presence than mass. “Is my agent ready to go back in the field?”

“Diagnostics should be juuust about finished,” Winston smiled. “We’ll take it down to Angela to get it attached.”

“I’d like a word with McCree in private,” Jack stated, the shortness of his tone conveying everything that was hidden behind his mask.

“Um…okay,” Winston said, his tone somewhat sheepish. Something about Jack’s manner made him feel like both he and McCree were in trouble somehow, though he couldn’t imagine what he would have done to receive Morrison’s ire. He lumbered out of the room, giving McCree a sympathetic look on his way past.

“So. New arm,” Jack began, his face still turned away from McCree.

“Uh, yessir,” McCree replied. “State o’ the art. Torbjörn went n’ built me a new one from the ground up.”

“How’s the armor this time?” Jack asked, leaning down to examine the fidgeting limb.

“Heh, way better. Made a point of that. Should be able to deflect pretty high caliber rounds now,” McCree bragged.

“Interesting. Let me see that,” Jack mused, pulling out his sidearm and shooting McCree’s hand in one smooth motion. McCree cried out, his stump jerking toward his chest as he protected his phantom limb, the hand clenching shut and the arm twitching reflexively on the table and the cords snapping taut again.

“OW! Shit, Jack, the hell was that for?!” McCree hollered, hissing in pain.

“What the _hell_ were you thinking back there, Jesse?!” Jack spat, grabbing his collar. “I said don’t split up. I gave you an order, and you disobeyed it.”

“I couldn’t leave Hanzo behind t’ get killed or captured!” McCree replied, desperately searching out where he could make ‘eye’ contact with that visor.

“I know you Blackwatch types aren’t used to rules—you even less,” Jack growled, “But Blackwatch is gone. You’re under my command, and when you get an order from me, _you follow it_.”

“Well your order was bullshit!” McCree spat, “An’ you were puttin’ ever’body at risk by not just lettin’ us split up an’ regroup! Winston, Genji, _Angela_ —for fuck’s sake, better t’ let me an’ Hanzo die rather n’ lose everyone!”

“You’re way out of line, McCree!” Jack spat. “This isn’t a goddamn democracy—”

“I done what needed doin’—”

“Ignoring orders is _way_ above your pay grade—”

“I done what Ana woulda did!”

“ _You aren’t Ana!_ ” Jack roared with equal parts rage and anguish. “You’re not Ana, you’ll never _be_ Ana! You’re not half of what she was! You think you can do whatever you want because _she_ let you, that you can do whatever she did because _I_ let her—but when she pulled this bullshit stunt, _she didn’t_ _make it_ _back!_ ” There was so much more he wanted to say—that he would happily trade twelve McCrees to get Ana back, that he had always had far too high an opinion of himself, that he knew Ana would never forgive him if he let McCree die—but all of it would have violated his mother’s axiom of ‘if you don’t have anything nice to say, then don’t say anything’. Instead, he just let out a cry of frustration, of anger, of misery, his fist pounding into the table next to them and upsetting a stack of papers and files Winston had been attempting to manage.

McCree’s mouth hung open in shock, the fight from moments before driven from him. It was rare that he found himself cowed into silence—and rarer that he didn’t have something to say on the topic of Ana—but Jack’s deluge of agony, the memory of Amélie’s sickly-sweet venomous last words to him, and his own wretched bloodstained emptiness was enough to do the job. His gaze fell, his head drooping in shame.

“…It won’t happen again, sir,” he murmured into his lap, rising from his seat and disconnecting his stump from the prosthesis, his hand falling limp on the table without input. He slid from the room under Jack’s reproachful gaze, feeling more and more like a worm the longer he was in the Commander’s presence.

* * *

“You seem awfully quiet,” Dr. Ziegler remarked, plugging various wires and cords into the sockets installed in McCree’s upper arm.

“Sorry,” he murmured in reply, the arm still hanging loosely as she tightened the bolts that fastened it in place.

“Hm. Your arm should be functioning,” she said, lifting the heavy metal appendage and testing the movement of his wrist. It moved easily under her guidance, but fell limp again as her hand fell away.

“Yes ma’am, it is,” McCree said, flexing his fingers experimentally and touching his fingertips to his thumb. His fingers moved faster and faster, clinking against his thumb in a rapid drumroll, far beyond human speed, quickly becoming a silver blur. The metallic sound had resolved into a low, audible note before he stopped. “Works jes fine, Doc,” he added, his hand falling into his lap. He was certainly glad to have it back, but the black cloud of how he’d lost it—again—was hanging over him.

Angela pursed her lips and turned back to her computer, tapping away at the keyboard for a moment as the leads coming out from under his forearm plate fed diagnostic data into Athena.

“Digit speed registers at 128% your former record,” Athena announced. “Torbjörn and Winston have outdone themselves.”

“Give ‘em my regards,” McCree sighed, reaching over and unplugging the wires tethering him down.

“Wait, we’re not finished yet,” Angela began, raising a hand before pausing. “…Though I suppose as long as you come back before your next mission, we can complete any diagnostics we’ll be missing,” she continued, frowning as McCree didn’t even pause in extracting himself from the test.

“Thank y’ kindly,” he muttered, locking the faceplate on his arm back down. Even the ‘tattoo’ that Torbjörn had worked into the design didn’t manage to bring a smile to his face—not like when he first saw his new arm.

“I’m not a psychiatrist,” she began, noting his despondent affect, “…But you know you can come and talk to me any time, Jesse. You know that, right?”

“Yes ma’am.” He merely stared at his new hand, unmoving. It was unnatural, seeing him so still. Even when he was asleep, he tossed and turned. Angela bit the inside of her lip, the silence becoming uncomfortable almost immediately. Unsure of what else she could say to coax the more typical McCree out of this morose shell, she began gathering up the wires, carefully wrapping them up. His voice almost startled her when he spoke again.

“Y’ didn’t get hurt, didja?” he asked softly, his eyes the only part of him that moved.

“On the mission?” Angela asked, “No. Nothing out of the ordinary, anyway,” she smiled, “Everyone has always taken good care of me while in the field.”

“Glad to hear it,” McCree murmured, his gaze falling again. “‘M sorry fer bein’ bullheaded, an’ gettin’ everyone hurt.”

“Don’t be silly,” she replied, walking over and resting a hand on his shoulder. “We all know the risks when we accept a mission, it’s not your fault.”

“No…‘s like Morrison said, I was outta line. I didn’t jes’ do what I was told. Tried to play by my own rules, an’ look what it got me…” McCree sighed.

‘And then you try to blame everyone else,’ that rattlesnake whispered in his ear, it’s voice sounding eerily like Amélie’s. ‘Typical. Pathetic. Worthless.’

“You tried to do what you thought was best, to protect your team. Your family,” Angela replied, smiling again and ducking to peer up into his face, dark with shadows and regret.

“I ignored my orders…an’ then I tried to blame Jack for everything goin’ all sideways,” he whispered, closing his eyes and turning away slightly.

“You have more experience in the field than almost anyone here,” Angela said, frowning slightly. It had been a long time since she’d seen McCree so down. “It’s no surprise you relied on your instincts and judgment when things took an unexpected turn.”

“My judgment ain’t any good, Angela, you know that,” he muttered, raising his new arm. “Look what it’s done for me.” He rose from the exam table, sighing as he slowly made for the door. “Jes’ glad no one else didn’t lose nothin’.”

“Jesse,” she called softly, “Where are you going?”

“Got a lotta work to do, Doc,” he replied, “Gotta make myself worth somethin’…”

* * *

The thunderclap of a sniper rifle echoed off the sheer rock faces of the Watchpoint, the sound of the bolt sliding back and the spent casing clinking and rolling across the rooftop significantly quieter.

Boom. Shhk-chk. Clink.

He’d always been quick on the draw, but in the time it took him to line up a shot at a distance, Ana could put five rounds in him. She’d done it plenty of times in training, splattering his chest and face and head with baby-blue paintballs. The one headshot would be sufficient, but she was trying to make a point.

Boom. Shhk-chk. Clink.

‘Speed is a byproduct of accuracy. Learn to do it right, and speed will come with time.’

Boom. Shhk-chk. Clink.

‘Damn, kid, you’re so impatient. Just take a few breaths. You’ll get the kill, but you’ve gotta take at least half a second to line things up. It's not a shotgun.’

Boom. Shhk-chk. Clink.

‘Look right down that barrel there, Jesse, line it up…breathe, and don’t be scared of the kick, son.’

Boom. Shhk-chk. Clink.

“Time,” he called.

“78.93 seconds,” Athena stated, “An improvement of 2.1 seconds.”

“Damnit,” McCree muttered as he reloaded the rifle, his new arm gleaming in the Mediterranean sun. “Ten shots, three misses, ain’t nowhere _near_ good enough.”

“McCree-san?” His head shot up at the intrusion, surprised to find Genji suddenly on the rooftop with him.

“Hey Genji,” he replied, his tone flat as he turned back to his rifle.

“What are you doing?”

“Practicing,” McCree said.

“May I watch?”

“Yer choice,” he shrugged. “Start the clock, Athena,” McCree said, lining up his shot. Breathe. Aim. Fire.

Boom. Shhk-chk. Clink.

“You are practicing with a rifle?” Genji asked, cocking his head to one side. McCree sighed. If Genji was just going to talk the whole time, maybe he should have said no.

“We ain’t got a sniper no more,” he said.

“So you are learning to snipe?”

“Ana taught me back in the day,” McCree said. “But I was never really ‘combat efficient’, as Jack’d say,” he muttered. “Only ever sniped fer things like assassinations.”

“Hanzo can snipe,” Genji remarked as McCree looked down the scope again.

“Good for him,” McCree muttered, firing again.

Boom. Shhk-chk. Clink.

“Damn,” he spat under his breath, shaking his head. ‘Slow down. Breathe.’

Genji sat down, watching McCree focus intently through the scope. “…Do you enjoy rifle shooting?” he asked, watching McCree’s brow crease with concentration.

“No, not really,” McCree replied, pulling the trigger again.

Boom. Shhk-chk. Clink.

“But it’s cause I ain’t good at it,” he continued, “So if I practice more, I might could like it more.” It had worked with dancing, after all, why couldn’t it work with shooting?

“Ah, I understand,” Genji nodded. “Hanzo, too, took up a new weapon for self-improvement.”

“Y’ gonna keep goin’ on ‘bout Hanzo, or what?” McCree asked sharply, frowning. He didn’t want to think too much about _why_ he was training. He’d outdone Hanzo once, but like Genji said, sniping was Hanzo’s wheelhouse, and he wasn’t about to let that scoreboard run up too high in his favor. And then there was Amélie…

“…I am sorry,” Genji said after observing McCree’s tense silence for a moment. “I had hoped the two of you had put your differences aside. You cooperated well during the mission.”

Boom. Shhk-chk. Clink.

“We’re professionals. We’ve got an understandin’, he an I; we ain’t gonna let our feelings get in the way of the mission,” McCree replied, hurrying to line up another shot before Genji could distract him again.

Boom. Shhk-chk. Clink.

“Ain’t mean we gotta be all warm and fuzzy-like once the mission’s done. Way I see it, he an’ I oughta just keep to ourselves.”

“Is that any way to treat someone who has earned your loyalty?” Genji asked. McCree had been keeping to himself a lot over the past few days, not only around Hanzo. Dr. Ziegler shared Genji’s concern for the cowboy.

“‘Treat others the way they would like to be treated’,” McCree replied.

“…I thought the phrase was ‘the way _you_ would like to be treated’,” Genji said, his arms crossing. Perhaps he had read the translation wrong…

“Men like Hanzo n’ Morrison ain’t want treatment like they give me,” McCree muttered darkly. Jack had never been his biggest fan, and even his attempts at patching up their relationship over the years had been spurned. ‘Quiet professionalism’ seemed the best course, even if he did occasionally falter into either ‘polite insult’ or ‘physical violence’ territory. That was for the enemy, not for friends. Not for family.

But if they didn’t want to be his family…

Boom. Shhk-chk. Clink.

“I think you have misread the air, my friend.”

“That so?”

“A man’s face in public is a mask he wears. In Japanese, we call it his _tatemae_. In battle, a man can learn about his true nature, his _honne_ ,” Genji explained. “It is why battle has been a spiritual pursuit in my country for centuries. We have both seen Hanzo’s _honne_ , I think.”

“Hm,” McCree toned when Genji paused, his attention focused down the scope.

“ _Honne_ is very private, however—it is understandable that he would not appreciate you seeing such a personal side.”

Boom. Shhk-chk. Clink.

“Hm.”

Genji couldn’t help but chuckle softly at the deja vu.

“What about you?” McCree asked, glancing over at the cyborg for a moment.

“My _honne_ and _tatemae_ are in harmony. I shed all ego and embraced my true self. It is how I found peace,” Genji replied.

“Well now,” McCree began, adjusting his hat and turning back to his scope, “Sure am happy for ya, Genji. Jes’ don't think all that zen voodoo stuff’s for me.”

“I believe your _honne_ and _tatemae_ are already in harmony, McCree-san. You are exactly who you are at all times. Except now,” Genji replied.

“What does that even mean?” McCree asked.

Boom. Shhk-chk. Clink.

“You are not a sniper.”

“Snipin’s a skill,” McCree replied, frowning. “I can practice n’ get better. I can be a sniper if I work at it enough.”

“But why do you want to be something that you are not?” Genji asked, friendly concern in his voice.

“Well sometimes, you gotta do things y’ don’t wanna do,” McCree said, his tone firm—the way his papa would talk when he dragged his feet doing what Mama told him to do. The way Ana would scold him, her disappointment the most powerful motivator this side of Death himself. The way Gabriel would—

Boom. Shhk-chk. Clink.

Damn you, Reyes.

“…What I am ain’t good enough, Genji,” McCree said softly. “Ain’t nobody can make up fer my mistakes no more. I need to be better. If I’m gonna pull my weight ‘round here, if’n I’m gonna be here fer my family, I gotta be better.” He needed to be what Overwatch was lacking. He needed to prove Morrison wrong. He needed to be Ana.

“Striving for self-improvement is important,” Genji nodded, “But you are very hard on yourself. It impairs your performance.”

“I know, I know,” McCree sighed, turning back to his rifle. One shot left. One shot, one kill.

‘Every shot is its own event. Past hits and misses don’t make this one more or less accurate. Make each shot count.’

Yes ma’am.

He took a few deep breaths, finding his rhythm again, pulling the trigger on instinct.

Boom. Shhk-chk. Clink.

Not bad. He could still clean up good.

“Time,” he muttered.

“I don’t think you want me to report that time…due to outside interference,” Athena rationalized.

“My apologies for interfering,” Genji said, though his tone suggested he wasn’t particularly sorry about much. “I hope we will see you at dinner. Hana has requested tacos, but she has made it clear she means _your_ taco, not my tako.” McCree reloaded the rifle silently, a tiny sigh leaving him.

“Well, I’d hate to disappoint anyone else this week,” he remarked, offering Genji a weary smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a rule, I don’t like adding author’s notes to stories, but I’ve been receiving repeated questions from readers in PMs and reviews, so I would like to address your thoughts and concerns.
> 
> There are no romantic ships planned for either Deadlocked OR The Gathering. As I have told some of you in responses, the themes dictating the relationships in both of these stories are ‘friendship’ and ‘family’. I can assure you, if there were a pairing planned, I would tag appropriately—the last thing I want to do is trick people into reading something they don’t want to see! That being said, there will always be tension, subtext, lingering glances, adorable bickering, worrying after one another, etc. between all sorts of characters, because people are people, even fictional ones. Whether you imagine more to be happening behind closed doors or not, those possibilities won’t be explored in this fic.
> 
> (Something I’ve been considering is a separate collection of non-canonical ‘deleted/alternate scenes’ where various pairings could be explored in a series of unconnected one-shots. Thoughts? Requests? Let me know in the comments!)


	6. Chapter 6

“Fareeha? Can I ask a favor?” Angela asked, shifting from one foot to the other.

“Of course,” she smiled, “What do you need?”

“Since that last mission, I’ve been thinking…” she began, brushing some blonde hair behind her ear with a sigh. “I’m really out of practice. It’s been so long since I’ve been in a combat situation…”

“I thought you were working in active battle zones,” Fareeha replied, her hip making a loud metallic clunk as she leaned against one of the many workbenches.

“Yes, in field hospitals,” Angela replied, “I’m not exactly in the thick of things these days. I did some sloppy work in Hanamura, relied too much on the others to protect me…”

“It’s alright, I’m sure nobody has any hard feelings,” Fareeha smiled. “A few more times out in the field, and you’ll get back in the swing of things.”

“But what if something terrible happens next time, before I get back to top form?” Angela asked, a look of almost panic on her face. “Jesse was almost killed, I had to do some heavy repairs to one of Genji’s legs, Hanzo was seriously wounded, even if he won’t admit it… Everyone trusts me to take care of them, even if the commanders…” she paused, the memories almost too painful to continue. If McCree had learned anything from Reyes, it was how to challenge Commander Morrison’s authority. And when push came to shove, he acted far more like Reyes than anyone else…

“...What do you need, Angela?” Fareeha asked, giving her a sympathetic look.

“I’d like to practice combat maneuvers—push the limits of my suit. We have plenty of training equipment, but working by myself won’t be nearly enough. And you’re just as, if not more mobile than the enemies we will likely be facing. If I can dodge you, I can dodge anything,” she smiled, though there was still worry in her brows.

“Sounds great,” Fareeha smiled, “Mind if I bring someone along?”

* * *

 

Fareeha poked her head into McCree’s room, metal fingers wrapping around the doorframe.

“Jesse! Angela and I were going to practice maneuvers. Want to play red team?” she asked, a hopeful smile on her face. McCree had been rather reclusive after Hanamura, only showing his face when it was meal time, or to slip out and practice with his old sniper rifle. His head raised, an empty little smile on his lips.

“Maybe some other time.” He paused, his gaze flicking across her gem-blue suit. “D’you jes’ wear that all the time?” McCree asked, sitting up a little bit more naturally.

“Getting in and out of it is a huge hassle,” she replied, shrugging. “Everyone else wears their prostheses pretty much all the time, don’t they?”

“Well, I hate taking mine—wait, _what_?” McCree asked, his brow wrinkling as his attention refocused like a laser.

“What?” Fareeha replied, leaning against the doorframe with a heavy clunk.

“That ain’t jes’ a suit?” McCree asked, rising from his seat on the edge of his bed and hurrying over to her. Thinking back on it, he hadn’t seen her out of her suit since she’d arrived…

“It’s a fully integrated flight suit, the most powerful Helix has developed so far,” Fareeha said, her jets flexing and adjusting as if they were uncomfortable limbs. “The G-forces it exerts tended to make people pass out from the blood getting pushed into their legs, though, so...no legs. And the concussive wrist rockets tended to break people’s arms when they used them, so no arms.”

McCree rubbed at his face in disbelief, blinking down at Fareeha again. “So, uh, on a scale of me to Genji, just how much’ve you’s metal now?” Fareeha giggled softly, glancing down at McCree’s new arm.

“My prosthetics go up to my shoulders, and most of the way up my thighs,” she replied, not apparently bothered by the talk nearly as much as McCree.

“So they’re more like Lucio than Hanzo, then?” he asked, gesturing to her legs.

“No, Lucio’s got an exoskeleton to help him walk, but his legs are still underneath,” Fareeha said. “You didn’t know that?”

“...Guess not,” McCree replied, reaching to pull his hat down and forgetting it wasn’t on his head. Instead, he was just left to awkwardly run his hand through his hair. Fareeha didn’t often see McCree so off his game.

“All of us with prostheses and cybernetics get together for lunch and talk about this stuff,” Fareeha began, smiling. “You should join us sometime.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he said, his tone non-committal.

“Everyone’s been asking about you, you know. It means a lot to the newer members of the team to see more experienced agents interact with them,” Fareeha advised. “Commander Morrison is a little…cold and distant for their tastes.”

“What about Torbjörn and Reinhardt?” he asked, looking away.

“They’re practically grandpas,” Fareeha laughed. “You’re our big brother—and you’re way cooler than them.”

“I ain’t exactly got my finger on the pulse of pop culture,” McCree smirked. “You heard the music Hana n’ Lucio listen to?”

“Have you heard the music that _Reinhardt_ listens to?”

“Fair point,” McCree chuckled.

“I mean it, Jesse,” Fareeha continued, her smile softening. “You were so…involved with everyone since the recall. It was nice…like Mom was still here,” she murmured, her gaze falling. Overwatch was family—that was what Ana had always said. That was how she had raised Fareeha; with many brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles in Overwatch blue, and she wanted nothing more than to have that feeling again, to help fill in that aching absence in her heart. To see McCree pulling back so hard reminded her far too strongly of how tension between her and Ana had begun to grow as her applications to join Overwatch started to come in, reminded her of how Jack was distant and ‘professional’ now, even with her, reminded her of how Gabriel had withdrawn and retreated into the shadows before he…

McCree’s arms quickly found their way around Fareeha, pulling her close and squeezing her armored body as tightly as he could manage. He, too, was aching—wallowing in his guilt. He knew that what Fareeha was saying was supposed to make him feel better, important, encourage him to come out more…but beneath her sweet encouragement was that harsh rattle in his ear, that cold venom piercing his heart.

‘You abandoned her, too, your little sister,’ that old serpent whispered, tightening around his throat, ‘You’re pathetic.’

Something struggled against those sandpaper scales as Fareeha’s arms wrapped around him in return, squeezing with almost inhuman strength.

‘It hurts, you say? Good. Learn from the pain.’

“Love you, baby girl,” McCree murmured into her short-cropped hair, hiding his face as best he could.

“Love you more, _habibi_ ,” Fareeha smiled. “We all miss you. I miss you,” she continued. “You don’t have to lock yourself up in here by yourself. You just have to get back in the saddle, right? Let’s go get some paintballs and practice. Come on, just you and me, like in the good old days. I’ll reschedule with Angela.”

McCree was still for a moment before his arms slowly fell and he retreated from Fareeha, turning back toward the bed for a moment. Her brow wrinkled with worry. Was he planning on being a hermit for the rest of his life, living in the Watchpoint like some specter?

Something soon covered her eyes—something dark and warm, old felt worn almost smooth, the scent of rich earth and late summer hay and well-oiled leather and warm spicy musk filling her nose. She reached up and pushed the old hat back on her head, her eyes filled with nostalgic joy as he casually wrapped his shoulders in thick red wool, his eyes slowly starting to warm up again.

“Let’s ride, chica,” he said, a hint of his relaxed laughter beginning to return.


End file.
